


broke off a dark twig

by MistressKat



Category: Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (2013)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Community: smallfandombang, F/M, Feels, Magic, Sibling Incest, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 02:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14463123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: It's true what they say: In the end, you can't run from yourself. There’s magic in their blood and slowly Gretel is discovering what it means to harness it, to use it to fight. And to protect. In the meanwhile, Hansel finds out just what it means to witness his sister's power first hand, to feel it race across his skin like lightning, blowing away every line the two of them have spent a lifetime drawing.





	broke off a dark twig

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I’ve been thinking about for a long time and it started with a prompt ‘a kiss of shadows’ from pushkin666 ages ago. It actually became a real fic for this year’s Small Fandom Bang. Thank you to Huntress79 for the [gorgeous art](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/sfbb07/works/14462988) I got. This was the first time I actually wrote something for this challenge and got art rather than just make it, and it was such a treat! A million thanks to dreamersdare who betaed this sick and feverish. The fic title is from [Lost In The Forest](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lost-in-the-forest-3/) by Pablo Neruda.

 

 

  
  
She should hate the forest, for all it’s taken; her parents, her childhood, her brother’s health. It breeds a darkness, in which witches thrive, building their nests of rot and evil. Hidden. Growing in power.  
  
But Gretel knows nothing is that black and white. If the last few weeks have taught her nothing else, it’s a whole new appreciation for shades of grey. Not that she has hasn’t spent her whole life – her real life, the one that began in front of an oven with a screaming witch inside it – travelling the line between right and wrong.  
  
The forest is neither good nor evil, Gretel knows that. The forest simply _is_. Just like magic.  
  
They both shelter, they both kill. And Gretel doesn’t hate either of them, not any more.  
  
Even so, leaving the forest behind for a while is the right thing to do. They are all relieved when the heavy tree cover gives way to the open skies above the mountain side, the air crisp and cold, almost painful to breathe. At the first sight of the ocean – and it is the first, for all of them – Gretel feels like something twisted and old inside her is being smoothed out, made anew one slow wave at a time.  
  
Ben runs into the surf, laughing like the young boy he still is, and even Edward seems to enjoy wading in the shallows, chasing the loud, screeching seabirds that have come to investigate the visitors.  
  
Hansel's shoulders loosen almost visibly, his stance growing relaxed, as though here, where it's possible to see miles in each direction, he can finally let his guard down, just a little. Gretel feels the same ease, like a long sigh escaping into the breeze, and she tangles her fingers with her brother's, standing shoulder to shoulder with him at the edge of the world, the sun warm on their faces, smell of brine and unexpected freedom wrapping itself around them.  
  
They go farther still, farther than Gretel thought the world would even stretch; across the ocean, into dense, wet forests teeming with life and so unlike the one she grew up in, and finally the desert. There the sky and sand and the constant wind burn out last of the sorrow that's been clinging to her skin since her father disappeared into the night, leaving the two of them alone.  
  
It's there, after they've dismembered the witch and buried her deep in the sand, in five separate locations, that Hansel gives her the book. It's night time, the world pitch black except for the sky, which is an endless blanket of stars, more than Gretel thought was even possible.  
  
They have camped at what some of the locals call an oasis, a place with water and vegetation and relative safety. Hansel finds her beyond the edge of the fire, head tilted back, starlight pouring like liquid silver over her skin.  
  
"Here." He hands her the parcel. It's too dark to see but Gretel can tell what it is by touch.  
  
"It was our mother's," Hansel says. "Mina used it on the weapons. Made them cut through witches like a scythe."  
  
Gretel remembers, although the memory of the battle is overshadowed by the one of seeing her brother's face behind the throng of witches baying for her blood, the feeling of unshaking certainty that he would come for her.  
  
And he had. With reinforcements.  
  
"I'm sorry she died," she says, fingers skimming blindly over the covers, old leather and heavy lettering she can almost read by feel alone.  
  
And she is sorry, for her brother who she knows had cared for the woman. For herself, because everything she knew about Mina - how she fought, how she healed others - suggests that she would have as well, given the chance. And she's sorry because perhaps it would have been easier for everyone in the long run, to have someone between the two of them, someone safe to... care about.  
  
Hansel says nothing, only rests a hand briefly on her shoulder before leaving her alone with the book and the stars. 

 

  
  
It takes her a few weeks to actually open the book. Weeks during which she finally lets herself think the one thing her mind has been skirting around since Muriel’s revelation. That if their mother was the Grand White Witch that makes them... Makes her...  
  
"Are you sure men can't be witches?" she asks Hansel one night, when Edward and Ben are already down for the count.  
  
Hansel snorts, amused. "You ever meet one?"  
  
"Well, no," Gretel concedes. "But we didn't meet a white witch until Mina either."  
  
That shuts him up. It's Gretel's turn to laugh. "Wouldn't that be a turn for the books? The Orphan Witches?"  
  
It's not really funny, none of it is, but they giggle anyway, leaning together helplessly and trying to suppress their laughter on each other’s' shoulders so as not to wake their companions.

 

  
  
Of course it's nothing but a nice thought.  
  
They’re back to civilisation before Gretel suggests they put theory to practice. The land gets more populated the closer to the coast they get; a fertile, green strip of fields and orchards and houses winding on either side of the river. It’s dotted with villages, then towns, although Edward means they’re staying out of the latter. Folk here aren’t used to his brand of non-human, for all they’re knowledgeable of the supernatural.  
  
Instead of inns or guesthouses, their ragtag group relies on the goodwill of out of town farmers and growers, who usually take payment in form of hard labour. Or a dead witch, on the rare occasion one is close enough to cause active grief to the community.  
  
Today, it’s been field work for Edward and Hansel, while Gretel and Ben have been allocated to fruit picking, something about their smaller hands being more suited for the task although Gretel is pretty certain Ben had kept the translation vague on purpose. The boy has turned out to be useful for more than his sharpshooting skills. His basic knowledge of Latin means he’s been able to pick up quite a few of the new languages they’ve encountered. The local one is far removed, of course, but all of them – barring Edward – had learned enough to get by.  
  
The day is warm, sweat springing to her skin within minutes, though she suspects Hansel has it worse. To her knowledge Edwards doesn’t sweat. They work until the sun is dipping low with only short breaks for water and small cakes, sweet and crumbling and full of the same dark fruit they’re gathering.  
  
The night, when it finally arrives, falls fast. There are houses for the temporary field hands, with low ceilings and a look of something built for function rather than show. The four of them, however, only avail themselves to the washing facilities. They set up camp outside, though still within the safety of the buildings and the fires. Ben and Edward drop off almost immediately, a long day and full bellies ensuring they’re snoring within minutes.  
  
“We should test it,” Gretel says. She keeps her eyes on the fire, the unfathomable shapes of the farm beyond it, shrouded by the night.  
  
Hansel doesn’t ask what she means. He knows.  
  
“It’s private enough,” Gretel continues, “but close to people in case Edward and Ben need help. In case something… goes wrong.”  
  
He doesn’t try to dissuade her that everything will be fine, only hums in response and gets up, his back popping audibly when he stretches. They move away from their sleeping compatriots, right to the edge of the light. Gretel hopes this isn’t somehow symbolic, watching the play of shadows across her brother’s features.  
  
“What do you want to try?” Hansel asks once the silence between them has stretched just a tad too long.  
  
She’s got an answer to that but she knows he’s read the book too, before her even. “You pick,” she says, just to check if they are as in synch about this as about everything else.  
  
Hansel grins, clearly aware of what she’s doing and why. “Sparks,” he says, “lighting a fire.”  
  
It’s what Gretel had decided on as well and she nods, satisfied and perhaps just a tiny bit excited. Creating sparks is one of the basic… skills of a white witch, the book suggests. There is no complex spell work required, only dry kindling and someone with magic in their blood.  
  
Fire is an appropriate choice in other ways too. It’s the most neutral thing Gretel knows, protecting and destroying equally and indiscriminately. She’s just starting to accept that the same applies to magic.  
  
Quickly, they build a small fire some ways off the main one, ready for lighting, and sit cross-legged on either side of it. Time to see if their mother’s legacy amounts to more than protection against dark magic and a life the limits of which start and end with the two of them.  
  
Hansel quirks a smile at her – a quick ‘can you believe this?’ – before closing his eyes, hands resting on his knees, palms up like he’s waiting for alms. Gretel studies his face for a rare unguarded moment, noting the slight sunburn pinking the tops of his cheeks, stubble shading the line of his jaw. Then she too shuts her eyes.  
  
The instructions, such as they are, only speak of being focused, of finding a quiet, still spot within, filled with light. It sounds easy.  
  
It is not.  
  
Inside Gretel’s eyelids there is darkness, then a slow starburst of colour once she squeezes them shut tighter. Gradually, it coalesces into the flames devouring a witch’s house, then the pyre that killed their mother. She never saw the last one of course but… she can imagine it.  
  
She tries not to.  
  
It’s probably not the kind of place from which she should be drawing anything from.  
  
Beyond it is the forest. Vast. Impenetrable. _Alive._  
  
And in it, two small children, bloody and alone but also _alive,_ so alive it _hurts._  
  
Gretel remembers that morning, walking out of the witch’s house hand-in-hand, the smell of rotting sweets in the air. She remembers the feeling of triumph, the fierce, _bright_ love for her brother, bathed in the light of the rising sun.  
  
And that is the place, that clearing with the crumbling cottage and two of them, battered and victorious, where their lives ended and began.  
  
Gretel _pulls._ She gathers to her the sunlight, the morning dew, every scrape on their skin, each breath of freedom until it all coalesces into something warm and dazzling. And then she pushes.  
  
The power rushes out, out from her chest, down her arms, into her hand and…  
  
She opens her eyes.  
  
There, on the cup of her open palm, is a cluster of sparks, dancing in the air just above her skin. She gasps in delight and looks across to Hansel, expecting to see the same.  
  
But her brother’s hands are empty.  
  
_“Gretel,”_ he breathes, voice full of astonishment and wonder, “I knew it.” His smile is without any bitterness, eyes soft as he picks up one of the twigs in their little pile and extends it to her. “Here, see if you can light it.”  
  
Cautiously, she lifts her hand to the same level and tries to nudge the sparks toward the waiting wood. It takes a few attempts but finally one of them rises up, slow and a bit wobbly, and travels the short distance. It lands and, with some careful blowing from Hansel, tiny flames appear as the dry branch catches fire.  
  
Hansel grins in congratulations, throws the burning stick amidst the others and picks up another. “Do it again,” he urges.  
  
This time it’s easier, but Gretel misjudges the distance and speed lightly and the spark lands on Hansel’s hand instead.  
  
For a long heartbeat they both simply stare at it until…  
  
“Shit!” Hansel rears back, shaking his hand. “That hurt!” He rubs at the skin that is already starting to blister.  
  
Gretel loses all focus on the source of light within and the sparks she’s holding wink out of existence. You could almost think they were never there, if not for the merrily burning fire between them.  
  
“But… You’re immune. We both are,” she says, stating the obvious. Or… perhaps the not so obvious anymore. “Magic can’t hurt you.”  
  
Hansel lifts his head slowly and the look in his eyes… It _burns._ “It seems,” he says, voice thick with something dark and dangerous, something they have spent a lifetime ignoring, “that yours can.”

 

  
  
The journey back home somehow feels longer than it did on the way out. They catch a ship from Alexandria to Rome, sailing via Tyre and Constantinople, long arduous weeks spent between spice barrels. The piles of ivory grow yellow in the sun, the wind tugging covers away as soon as they are secured. Hansel still gets seasick, hanging miserably off the railing as soon as the waves get big enough to feel.  
  
Gretel is, somewhat guiltily, glad. When Hansel is puking his guts out, it means he’s not giving her those sideways glances, eyes hooded and face unreadable except not, not for _her._  
  
Because she knows. Has _always_ known. Even before they were really the age to think of such things.  
  
Then again, when you’ve been abandoned by your parents, almost eaten by a wicked witch and then shoved her into the oven instead, there isn’t much left that is unthinkable.  
  
So no, it isn’t new. The looks. The _wanting._  
  
But now… Now Gretel has magic, the scars of it still visible her brother’s skin. She keeps looking at them, tiny patches of new, white skin on his hand, unable to stop thinking about other kinds of marks she wants to leave. And receive.  
  
They’ve come close before. Nights when it’s just the two of them, lying on either side of a fire, the forest silent at their back, promising to keep all secrets. The day she thought she’d lost him, only to find him kneeling in the ruins of their childhood. The moments after battle, dozens of them, when there’s nothing but smell of blood and taste of iron and she knows that her heart beats – furiously, joyfully – to the same rhythm as her brother’s.  
  
But never before has she felt not just like they _could_ cross the line but like they’ve already _have._ As if it was never there in the first place, not really, and, like so many other beliefs that she thought unshakeable, it’s been blown asunder, nothing but desert sand under the westerly wind.  
  
Gretel stands at the bow of the ship, face turned to the sky and feels the spray of salt water kissing her skin. The sun is setting and they are heading straight to the fire, the horizon burning like a funeral pyre. Somewhere behind her Hansel is sleeping fitfully, and Gretel thinks that if she concentrated, if she wanted it enough, she could slip right into his dreams. She breathes through the impulse and spins a web of starlight between her fingers instead, flicking it to the sea like a scrap of silk and watching it float away.

 

  
  
They are all relieved to be back on dry land, even if it isn’t home quite yet. The travelling keeps them busy, too busy to worry about anything else. It’s almost like now that they are this close to home, all of them are feeling the urgency to return much more. Work – their kind of work – is scarce on the Alps and the way through not exactly a pleasant stroll.  
  
Exhausted as she is, Gretel keeps practicing her magic in earnest, now that they are not stuck on an easily flammable vessel in the middle of an ocean. There’s no point of keeping it a secret from the others either and Ben and Edward accept her powers readily. Then again, Gretel shouldn’t be surprised by that. After all, they all witnessed Mina using white magic to help them win the battle against Muriel and her army.  
  
The Grimoire has survived the journey, as much by sheer luck as by design, and Gretel studies it each morning before they set off, each night until her eyes burn from squinting at the letters in the flickering firelight. Ben offers suggestions, some of them good ones, and Gretel finds him a useful sounding board.  
  
Hansel is mostly quiet on the topic but his gaze keeps finding her, darting and full of helpless hunger, and she knows he hopes she doesn’t notice and fears that she does. It twists her insides and, surprisingly or perhaps not, fuels her magic.  
  
They are all of them covered in scrapes and shallow cuts from scrambling through the mountain passages, nothing serious but annoying enough. Gretel looks at her bloodied palms where she’d caught herself earlier that day. They sting, the skin peeled back and raw. She breathes in and out, pulls in the pain, laces it into the golden threads of her magic, the heat of it seeping through her slow and gentle. In front of her eyes, the flesh of her palms knits itself together, leaving behind new skin, smooth and pink.  
  
After that first time, she starts to slowly practice on the others. It’s mostly – thankfully – minor injuries but then Edward breaks his leg, sliding down a particularly steep slope as the ledge gives out under the troll’s weight. The sickening snap of it is loud enough to echo, Edward’s uncharacteristic howl of pain sending a cold spike of fear through everyone’s hearts. Trolls are tough, their bones much denser than humans’ which means they are both difficult to break and near impossible to reset.  
  
They hurry down to where Edward is lying in a heap, his face tilted up. He’s panting heavily, eyes unseeing. It’s clear that he’s not going anywhere under his own steam, and it’s not like even all three of them are strong enough to carry him.  
  
“You have to fix it,” Ben says, kneeling by Edward’s head. For a moment he looks like a young boy, pleading for a miracle, and then his features harden. “It’s the only way,” he adds.  
  
Gretel knows he’s right but… “I don’t know if I can.” And that’s equally true.  
  
“Try.” Hansel’s hands settle on her shoulders, as if to steady her. He’s standing close enough behind her that she feels his body heat even through the layers of clothing, even through the cold sweat of panic coating her skin. “You have to try.”  
  
Gretel nods and kneels on the ground, loose gravel digging painfully into her flesh. Behind her Hansel follows suit, his body moulding itself into a solid wall of warmth for Gretel to lean on. She bends to examine Edward’s mangled leg, the white shards of bone sticking out like crystals from the rock. The sight of it makes her nauseous, not because of the blood or the injury itself – she’s seen worse, hell she’s _inflicted_ worse on others – but because this is Edward, her _friend,_ and she can feel his pain, can almost taste it, hot and metallic on her tongue. She closes her eyes, tries to grab hold of the pain, to control it.  
  
“I know where you go.” Hansel’s words are soft, quiet enough that she knows she’s the only one hearing them. His forehead is pressed against the top of her spine, hands curled around her upper arms. “I know because I’m there.”  
  
And he is, right there next to her, hands clasped together as they watch the witch burn. There when they complete their first hunt, collect their first bounty, their tenth, fiftieth. There when Muriel holds the blade to her throat, there when the world tilts on its axis and magic rips through her like a storm. Gretel’s back arches like a bow and she screams, Edward’s pain lancing through her and suddenly it’s easy, so easy, to spin it around her magic, to turn the power of it on its head and push it back, down, into the broken bone and flesh and skin, make it all whole again.  
  
Under her hands Edward’s leg is momentarily bathed in light and he rears up, shouting alongside her for one terrible, blinding moment of fear and love and family and…  
  
Then it’s over. Edward falls back to the ground, almost crushing Ben in the process. His leg is completely healed.  
  
Gretel gasps for breath, pretends it isn’t a sob, buries it in her brother’s chest anyway. “Amazing,” Hansel whispers. His voice shakes. His hands do too, smoothing down Gretel’s sides. “You’re amazing.”

 

  
  
It’s early summer when they finally get back. The forest raises up to meet them, slowly at first but with each passing day the trees grow taller, denser, the language and then the accent in the villages they pass morphing closer to what they grew up with.  
  
They start picking up jobs and although witches are thinner on the ground than they used to be – seems Muriel’s defeat had brought a measure of peace to the region – there’s still plenty of dark creatures to kill. Plenty of human scumbags to collect too, and a bounty is a bounty is a meal and a new set of weapons at the end of the day. The four of them are a proper team now, working together with an efficiency that lines their pockets with silver, and their hearts with sense of home, of family.  
  
They are on their way to the another job, when the rain catches up with them, a slow, steady drizzle that takes a few minutes to really permeate the canopy but once it does it drenches everything in seconds. The trees are dripping water from each branch, dark rivulets of it sluicing down the trunks, turning the ground underneath treacherous.  
  
Ben trips over a water slippery root and the only thing stopping him from breaking his neck is Edward's large hand grabbing hold of the back of his tunic.  
  
"We need shelter," Hansel says. He's tucked his weapons under his coat to keep them from getting wet. The rain has plastered his hair flat, and under the grey light of the day it looks black, foreign. Gretel wants to run her hands over it, to push it back from his face, to see what his lashes look like, clumped together and heavy with droplets. She knows. She just wants to see it again.  
  
Edward grunts in agreement. He takes a look around, setting Ben down surprisingly gently, before turning off the path. Hansel and Gretel look at each other, identical expressions of 'eh, might as well' on their faces, before following him.  
  
They trudge on for another hour or so, the ground slowly sloping upward while the tree cover thins. The rain doesn't stop but neither does it get any worse. Ben looks like a drowned rat, keeping his head down as he follows on Edward's footsteps. Hansel and Gretel are on high alert. The rain effectively masks any other sounds, which makes it perfect for sneaking up on someone without them hearing it. It's a trick they've used before and have no desire to fall victim to themselves.  
  
Once the ground is more rock than dirt, and the rain is whipping them without being slowed down by the trees, Edward slows, pointing up.  
  
Hansel sees it a second before Gretel. "Not bad," he says, clapping Edward on the back. "I hope it's unoccupied."  
  
There, half-hidden behind shrubs and a hanging cliff edge, is a dark opening of a cave.  
  
Edward snort derisively. "Mine!" he exclaims, starting to climb. The others follow suit.  
  
"I'll be damned," Gretel observes once they are inside. The cave is large, much larger than one would guess. Troll-sized. Troll-used too, judging from the smell, though thankfully not recently.  
  
"Is this your... home?" Ben asks, eyes wide as saucers in the dim light.  
  
Edward makes a complicated half-shrug, half-nod type of gesture, dropping an armful of dry wood and kindling by the fire pit. Clearly, the cave comes well stocked.  
  
Hansel starts to build the fire while Gretel takes a slow tour of the amenities, finding nooks and side rooms full of not just firewood but also dried meat, fish and vegetables, all packed away tightly on ledges near the cave roof, out of way of any animals brave enough to enter. There are tools, and some dishes, all troll-sized. She doesn't think this is Edward's home the way Ben would understand the word, but perhaps in a way she and Hansel do; somewhere safe to lay your head, somewhere familiar even.  
  
When she gets back to the main part of the cave, the fire is burning cheerfully, Ben and Edward unpacking pots and pans. Hansel is sitting cross-legged between the fire pit and the cave opening, methodically checking his weapons for any water damage.  
  
Gretel walks closer, feet silent against the hard-packed earth that covers the cave floor. Hansel doesn't lift his head where it's bent over his crossbow but she can still tell the exact moment he hears her approaching, the minute tightening of his shoulders, there and gone in seconds once he recognises her steps.  
  
She stands close enough to feel the heat of his body against her leg. Outside, the rain has evolved into a downpour, water coming in sheets, pushed almost horizontal by the wind.  
  
Though the day is bleak and grey, behind them the fire casts enough light to compensate. Gretel watches a drop of water fall loose from Hansel's still wet hair, slowly roll down the back of his neck before disappearing under the collar of his shirt. If she closes her eyes, she can see vividly the journey it will make along the broad expanse of her brother's back, down the column of his spine.  
  
That she wants to follow it with her fingers, her mouth, is not a new thought. That she thinks she could, will, someday soon, _is._  
  
"You're drenched," she says, quickly carding her fingers through Hansel's hair, liking the way he leans into the touch, just briefly. "Hold on."  
  
She casts around for something to work as a... not a wand, not really, because one of the things her mother's Grimoires was clear about was that a witch doesn't need a wand, only something to focus her magic through. And until she is good enough for that something to be her own will, having a physical object is helpful. Healing Edward had been more about raw power than finesse. Bodies – human, troll, animal, didn’t matter – were amazing. They knew how to heal themselves, all she’d had to do was provide the energy to accelerate the process.  
  
But this isn’t a life or death situation, right now she doesn’t have the urgency to steady her focus, so she better find something to help ensure she doesn’t accidentally burn someone.  
  
Gretel nudges the pile of kindling with her foot, picking up a birch branch, gnarled and no longer than the span of her hand from wrist to fingertips. It feels warm, likely from being near the fire but Gretel imagines there's life in there somewhere still, a promise of spring and pale green shoots buried under wood seemingly dead.  
  
She tries it on herself first, wanting to get it right, pointing the thin end of the stick at her own stomach and murmuring the words, thinking of dry heat of the desert, the steam of evaporating moisture. There's a flash, bright as the flames in the fire pit and as hot as that as it licks over her, but too quick to actually hurt. At the end of it, her clothes and hair are no longer wet though her skin feels a bit tender as if she'd fallen asleep under the noon sun.  
  
A little less force then, she thinks, turning to her brother.  
  
Hansel is regarding her openly now, head tilted back and to the side. He's still sitting down, but has put his weapons away and his posture is relaxed, open. "Come on then," he says, grinning. "I'm starting to chafe in these wet clothes."  
  
Gretel snorts and with two quick steps she's looming over him, the birch twig pressed to the centre of his chest. This time she only has to think the words, the rush of warmth like summer breeze and shared furs travels down her arm and into her brother in waves.  
  
Hansel gasps, his eyes going wide and glazed, mouth dropping open and... It's done. Gretel takes a step back and Hansel runs a hand through his perfectly dry hair, something like wonder except more complicated than that flitting over his features.  
  
"Oh cool!" Ben says from behind them. "Do me next!"

 

  
  
Whilst the stay at what Gretel is privately calling ‘Troll Inn’ had been perfectly adequate, it does drive home the fact that it’s been some considerable time since any of them slept a night in a real bed.  
  
The word of their return travels fast and job offers keep coming in, messages left to them at most towns and villages they come across. They’re mostly minor, small time stuff, which isn’t a bad thing considering Gretel is still honing her powers. Even so, the payments start to mount up, enough so that she feels entirely justified putting her foot down about stopping at one of the bigger towns even though it’s barely noon, and there’s no job waiting for them here.  
  
Moringstadt sits in the intersection of two popular trading routes, meaning it’s busy, affluent and has several guest houses.  
  
“What about Edward?” Hansel asks.  
  
Their motley group is standing just behind the treeline, before fields start taking over the countryside around the town proper. They’re close enough to one of the main roads to hear the noise of wagons going in either direction, the calls of livestock and chatter of people.  
  
“Edward is perfectly happy to entertain himself for the day, aren’t you?” Gretel glances over where the troll is sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree.  
  
He grunts in acknowledgement and tilts his face against the sun, seemingly content to stay just where he is.  
  
“A town this size is bound to have a good blacksmith,” Gretel says, trying to sweeten the deal and not to let her annoyance show too much.  
  
Hansel wasn’t keen on large groups of people at the best of times, or towns big enough that the buildings made him feel trapped – neither of them were really – but he wasn’t usually this stubborn about taking a well-deserved break, not when there wasn’t a good reason for it.  
  
“I could do with a meal that isn’t rabbit with some more rabbit,” Ben says. “I’m starting to have fantasies about bread. I bet they have bakeries there.” He gazes longingly at the town, the smoke from numerous fires – some likely warming up big ovens – making the air above it hazy.  
  
Hansel looks at each of them in turn, and then at Edward who is by now snoring softly and thus noticeably abstaining himself from the debate. “Well,” he says after a beat of silence, “I’m clearly outvoted here.”  
  
Ben and Gretel high-five in victory.  
  
“Cheer up,” Gretel says as they make their way toward the main road, “I’ll bet they do more than one flavour of beer.”

 

  
  
She’s right. The bar at the inn they settle on boasts an excellent selection of alcohol, and judging by the smells wafting from the kitchen, the food is of good quality as well. They’ve already lost Ben to the call of the marketplace on the way and Gretel suspects he’ll end up spending most of his share of the money on baked goods.  
  
“Two rooms, please,” Hansel says to the woman who has come to greet them, introducing herself as Frau Krüger, the owner’s wife. She is old enough to be someone’s grandmother and pleasantly round, wearing a spotless apron and a welcoming smile. Her grip when she shakes Gretel’s hand is firm though, and Gretel guesses tossing out drunkards and unruly guests would build some serious muscle.  
  
“You’re in luck,” Frau Krüger says. “We’re almost fully booked. Is it just the two of you?”  
  
“Our friend will be joining us later,” Hansel explains. “He’ll stay with me though. My sister would like a room to herself. With a bath.”  
  
Gretel blinks, opens her mouth to protest and… promptly snaps it close again. When it was just two of them it made sense to share a room, was necessary even when the funds were low or the places less than welcoming. But with a third member to their party, this one a nonrelated man, it would have drawn the wrong kind of attention.  
  
Doesn’t mean Gretel is happy about it.  
  
“We can do that,” Frau Krüger promises, picking up two keys from the hooks behind the counter. “Follow me.”  
  
At least the rooms are right next to each other, though sadly lacking a joining door. Most guests would probably balk at it but Gretel is thinking about the five extra steps it takes to get out of her room, into the hallway and then into Hansel and Ben’s room if something goes wrong.  
  
Nothing is going to go wrong of course. The inn is busy but respectable, and there is no reason to believe anyone is coming after them. At most, they’re going to be woken up by drunken guests making their way to their beds.  
  
Gretel doesn’t voice any of it though. “This is good,” she says instead, nodding her thanks to Frau Krüger. The sight of a large copper bath tub right next to the fireplace is enough to make the statement sincere.  
  
She makes arrangements to have the maid bring in hot water, already looking forward to washing off weeks of grime. The inn has a washroom at the back for the men, and Hansel mutters something about being just fine with that before disappearing downstairs.  
  
Gretel sighs and drops her bags by the bed. The mattress sags when she sits on it but the frame is solid, all the way to the floor. If Hansel had been sharing a room with her, he wouldn’t have been able to sleep under the bed as usual, only next to it. Or…  
  
She curls her fingers into the woollen blanket and wrenches her mind back to the present.  
  
It only takes a few minutes until there’s a knock on the door, the maid coming in with two buckets of steaming water. Gretel takes them from her and pours the water into the tub. She protests, but Gretel tells her not to worry about it; this way the bath will fill just a bit quicker. It still takes several trips of course but eventually Gretel is left alone with a towel and a bar of soap, the fire lit to keep the room warm.  
  
She looks at the lock on the door for a moment but in the end turns it. There’s only one person she wouldn’t mind walking in while she’s in the bath and judging by the way Hansel had not quite met her eyes earlier, he’s unlikely to do it.  
  
She undresses quickly, making a note to find if the inn offers a laundry service as well as all their clothes could use a more thorough clean than they’ve been able to manage whilst on the road. The water is just on this side of scalding and Gretel lowers herself into the tub with an appreciative hiss, the heat soaking into her tired muscles, finding every bruise and scrape with a cleansing sting.  
  
It’s still early in the day, and the sunlight slants in through the window panes. The inn is quiet and for a long, blissful moment Gretel’s mind grows still and silent as well, the heat and the water lulling her to an almost sleep.  
  
A soft knock on the door rouses her some indeterminable time later. She knows who it is before Hansel’s voice drifts through the wood.  
  
“Ben’s back,” he calls. “We’re heading downstairs to eat. Do you want me to order for you, or…?”  
  
She sits up, knows that Hansel can hear the water sloshing against the tub, over the rim of it. “No, it’s alright,” she answers, raising her voice just enough to be heard. “I’ll come down in a bit and order then.”  
  
There’s a beat of silence, just a bit too long, before Hansel’s “See you there” reaches her ears, faint like he is already walking away.  
  
Gretel isn’t sure whether to be disappointed or relieved, so she settles on ignoring it. The water has grown tepid while she dozed, and she grabs the soap, starting to scrub herself clean.  
  
Less than an hour later, Gretel walks into the inn dining room. It’s not quite evening yet but the afternoon is late enough that the crowds have thickened, hungry travellers and traders seeking early supper. As always, quite a few of the men follow her with their eyes as she makes her way across the room. No one gets familiar though so she lets it go, focusing on finding Hansel and Ben.  
  
That turns out to be an easy task as her two companions have gathered an admiring crowd for themselves. Gretel can’t exactly blame the waitresses who seem to linger around their table, or the gaggle of young – and not so young – men and women who are drawn into their circle like moths to the flame.  
  
Freshly washed, full of food and good cheer – due to at least in part, Gretel guesses, the mugs of dark beer littering the table – both Ben and Hansel cut a striking figure. They have shed their jackets in deference to the warm summer evening and the heat of the kitchens that is making the air thick and fragrant. Years of fighting have sculpted Hansel’s arms into something that is going to catch anyone’s gaze, either in admiration or in fear. Ben, though younger and with only a year’s hunting under his belt, is no longer the scrawny boy they’d picked up either. They both hold themselves like men who know how to fight, but would prefer not to, and for a second or two Gretel is overcome with a flash of pride, fierce and more than a little proprietary. _‘Mine,’_ she thinks, making her way over, _‘my friend, my brother. Mine.’_  
  
Ben is in the middle of a story, one of their early cases by the sound of it, gesturing expansively enough that some of his drink ends of the floor rather than in his mouth. The crowd – those who are openly listening, and those who are pretending not to – are enthralled, laughing and exclaiming in all the right places. Even Hansel, who normally find this sort of thing discomfiting, is joining in, interjecting a comment here and there. It’s good to see him so relaxed, having fun, and when his head turns in her direction – seemingly picking up the familiar thread of her steps even amongst the noise of the room – Gretel is unable to keep the affection off her face.  
  
Hansel blinks as if surprised but his expression eases into a smile, tentative but bright, and all for her. Then his eyes slide past her and darken, his mouth flattening into an unhappy line. Gretel doesn’t have to turn around to know that Hansel’s spotted someone about to progress from looking to touching, and she reaches behind her on instinct, hand closing around a meaty wrist.  
  
“Apologise,” she says and twists the man’s arm into a painful angle, receiving a gratifyingly quick “Sorry!” for her trouble. She lets go and moves on, without once looking behind her. By the time she’s sitting down opposite Ben and Hansel, her brother is smiling again, this one a small, amused smirk.  
  
Gretel order her supper and a drink as well. She and Hansel mostly sit and listen while Ben entertains their changing audience. It’s unlikely that there will be any business here – the town is too big, too ‘civilised’ for witches to get much of a foothold near it – but people travel and talk, they have friends and family dotted around the country, some of them in places that could surely use the specialist service the four of them provide.  
  
As the night grows late, the crowds thin and even Ben leaves, quietly slipping out with one of the inn’s waitresses. To his credit Hansel manages to bite his tongue until they’re out of earshot but then he tilts his face and makes an exaggerated _“Awwwww”_ sound.  
  
“They grow up so fast,” he sighs.  
  
Gretel snorts. “Yeah, pretty sure Ben was all grown up by the time we picked him up. Well, at least in this regard.”  
  
Hansel hums but doesn’t contradict her. They sit in silence for a while, finishing their drinks.  
  
“Ben’s not the only one who could find some company tonight,” Gretel finally says, unable to bite back the words any longer. She’s seen the waitresses flirt with Hansel throughout the evening, knows he’d have his pick if he wanted. It’s been close to a year since Mina, and while neither of them has ever been one for many affairs – partly because of their job, partly for reasons they’d actively avoided thinking about – Gretel wonders if she should push it. One last ditch attempt at normalcy – or as close to is as they were ever going to get – before she gives into the inevitable.  
  
When Hansel only looks at her before putting his empty mug down and getting up with a muttered “Good night,” Gretel says nothing more about it, simply watching her brother make his way up the stairs, going to bed alone. The stab of possessiveness from earlier returns tenfold, sharp and hot and _vicious._ Under the table, out of sight, her magic sparks, restless. Gretel presses her palms against her thighs and makes herself sit there, to wait until she knows Hansel is asleep, until she can get up without having to explain the blue flames licking at her hands.  
  
That night Gretel breathes against the coarse sheets, her arm hanging out over the edge of the bed, fingers brushing over the empty floorboards. She thinks about getting up and knocking on her brother’s door, she thinks about until she aches, until she falls into a fitful sleep.

 

  
  
Ben’s storytelling at the inn bears fruit quicker than any of them expected. They’re only a few hours out when a message a reaches them of a hunt with a sizeable reward attached to it. They change course, and arrive at their destination within a couple of days travelling.  
  
As soon as Gretel spots the cross, rising much higher than the other buildings, she knows Hansel is not going to be happy about the job no matter how big the bag of coins at the end of it.  
  
It’s rare for a town this small to have its own church. A lot of places have their own preachers – most of them dry, sour men clinging to a black book and an invisible God, fearful of any power other than their own. Especially if it’s in the hands of women.  
  
This place, however, has an actual church, clearly built over many years and with the sweat and blood of the whole community. It stands on the edge of the town, although you can already see habitation encroaching, cobbled streets extending toward the modest tower like eager fingers reaching to touch something unobtainable. It won’t be long until the church will be in the centre of town, as the houses and shops and people organise their lives around it.  
  
Gretel’s seen it happen elsewhere. She’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not.  
  
Perhaps, if it comes with a priest like this one.  
  
Father Oderman is young, almost shockingly so. He is not, however, naïve. That may prove to be either fortunate or quite the opposite, depending how the conversation is going to go.  
  
“…as discovered by the Sisters in Weesen,” the priest says, finishing the tour with a sweep of his hand. The herb garden is indeed impressive, and at least it’s something useful, something that can help the community in a concrete way while sermons of afterlife cut a bit too close to the bone.  
  
“Very unusual to see the church take an interest in… folklore,” Ben ventures cautiously. He and Father Oderman are close in age and, Gretel thinks, watching the two put their heads together as they start discussing the latest interpretation of papal decrees, in interests too.  
  
She leaves them to it momentarily, walking further into the garden. The Father had invited them to view the church from the inside, to attend the service later that day, but Gretel has no desire to step a foot into the building itself, content to survey it from the outside. She’s pretty sure that God, if He exists, would rather they maintain a mutually respectful distance as well.  
  
That Father Oderman hadn’t insisted is a point in his favour as far as she’s concerned. They are here to solve a problem and if sitting in a pew would do it, then the Mayor wouldn’t have had to invite them at all.  
  
Hansel is out talking to him right now, getting the details of the situation. Gretel had taken one look at the large cross dominating the town skyline and sent Hansel in the opposite direction of the church.  
  
Where she is largely disinterested if scornful of the worst of the priesthood, Hansel harbours an active and very obvious dislike of organised religion and those who promote it.  
  
He had not been happy about Gretel going to talk to the priest either.  
  
“What do you think he’ll do if he finds out what you are?” he’d hissed, “Say a few prayers?”  
  
It would be overbearing, this… protectiveness of his, the almost paranoia, but Gretel only has to close her eyes to see the fire, and she understands. There is fear in her brother’s eyes but… They have a job to do.  
  
“After the Mayor, he is the second most important person in this town,” she’d said, pointing out the obvious. “If he doesn’t agree with the Mayor’s plan, we are not going to get paid.” She doesn’t tell him that she’ll be fine, because she can’t be sure, and she doesn’t say that she can take care of herself, because he already knows that.  
  
So for now they’ve gone their separate ways; Hansel to meet the Mayor and Gretel and Ben to introduce themselves to the spiritual leader of the town. By mutual agreement they had left Edward in the forest. He does not do well in places that have pulled the thin blanket of ‘civilisation’ over their eyes as a protection against what dwells in the darkness beyond the treeline.  
  
It is not for the first time on the job or outside it that they’d been out of sight of each other, but something about it makes her more anxious now than before. After what happened with Muriel, after their trip and the confirmation of Gretel’s powers, she wants her brother where she can see him at all times. Preferably close enough to touch.  
  
“Would you like to see the storage room, dear?” The old woman in charge of herb garden jolts Gretel out of her thoughts. Frau Abendrode seems like a kind grandmother on first glance with her woollen shawl and bent back, but the look she gives Gretel is long, penetrating and as hard as flint.  
  
“Sure,” Gretel agrees, surmising that the invitation is more of a command than a question. She glances over her shoulder, sees Father Oderman and Ben still deep in conversation, and then follows the crone.  
  
The storage is more of a small barn than anything else, low-ceilinged and dimly lit, wane sunlight filtering through the gaps in the walls, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. The smell of herbs is overwhelming and Gretel sneezes three times in a row as soon as she walks in.  
  
Frau Abendrode cackles, beckoning her deeper. They weave between sacks and boxes, duck around hundreds of dried bunches hanging from the rafters. At the back there are long work benches, filled with herbs in various stages of preparation, the knives, pestles and bags all meticulously organised. It’s nothing that Gretel has a personal interest in, but she can recognise mastery of craft when she sees it.  
  
“Very impressive,” she says. And then, carefully: “It’s… unusual for men of the church to be so supportive of this kind of work.”  
  
The old woman waves a dismissive hand. “Father Oderman chooses not to know what he doesn’t want to know. Unusually wise indeed, for a priest. But I didn’t ask you to come here to discuss that.” She pulls opens one of the low cabinets under the table and pulls out several vials. “Here,” she says, handing them over. “For your brother. It is more potent. He’ll need less, and less often.”  
  
Gretel hisses in surprise, cradling the vials like the treasure they are. “How did you know?” she asks.  
  
“Eh,” Frau Abendrode grins. One of her front teeth is missing. “People talk. I listen.” She proceeds to provide Gretel with detailed instructions about dosage and makes her repeat them back twice before she’s satisfied.  
  
“Thank you,” Gretel says, sincere. “I will pay you. When we get the reward money.”  
  
“Hmm.” The old woman tilts her head, regards Gretel in silence for a moment. “No,” she says. “You will pay me now.”  
  
Gretel starts to protest that she doesn’t have the funds on her. Frau Abendrode hushes her. “Not money, child. I want to see,” she touches the corner of her eye, “what I already see,” and then her chest.  
  
Then, casual and easy like it isn’t the middle of the day on church grounds, she brings her palms together with a clap and when she pulls them apart there is a string of light stretching between them.  
  
Gretel gasps, not really from surprise because on some level she’d known, had felt it, but simply from the novelty of it, of seeing someone showcase magic – white magic – like this.  
  
“It’s nothing but a cheap trick,” Frau Abendrode says, “though handy for finding things in the cellar.” She brings her hands back again and the light is gone. “Herbs, plants, living things… That’s where my specialism really is. Now you.”  
  
There are dozens of questions clamouring for attention, from ‘is it that obvious?’ to ‘how do I do that?’ and ‘are you sure you’re safe here?’ but Gretel bites them back. Frau Abendrode wants payment.  
  
She closes her yes, finds the clearing, the clasp of Hansel’s hand, the blood on both their faces – all of it coming faster each time she does it – pulling the heat of it to her. Opening her eyes she reaches up, touches a bunch of dried nettles hanging above her. Slowly, the leaves uncurl, turning from dull to vibrant green. The hairs on the underside also come back, as potent as ever.  
  
_“Ow!”_ Gretel snatches her hand away, her finger now covered in small bumps from the sting.  
  
Frau Abendrode snorts. “Should have thought that one through.” She upends one of the baskets on the table and hands Gretel a fistful of freshly picked white man’s foot.  
  
Gratefully, she breaks the leaves, rubbing them over her sore finger.  
  
“Go on then,” the old woman shoos her toward the door. “You have a dark witch to kill. But come back, after.” She looks over her shoulder, catches Gretel’s eye. “We have things to talk about.”  
  
Outside, Father Oderman and Ben are already waiting.  
  
“Sorry,” Gretel says, “Frau Abendrode was giving me the tour.”  
  
“Yes. She is very thorough.” The preacher’s eyes flick to the doorway and back. The look in them is inscrutable. “Now then,” he continues. “Your… apprentice here,” Ben makes a strangled noise, half indignant and half pleased, “told me that you’ve had some success in dealing with the kind of evil plaguing us before?”

 

  
  
They find Hansel waiting at the side of the road leading away from the town. He’s sitting on the fence, eating an apple and swinging his feet like a little boy. To anyone else, he looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but Gretel sees the tautness of his shoulders, the way his eyes keep scanning the surroundings like he’s expecting an attack any minute.  
  
He’s not happy and she doesn’t think it has anything to do with the job.  
  
Some of the tension drops off when he sees the two of them, unencumbered by an angry mob or a Bible waving priest. Gretel scoops up a pebble off the ground and lobs it at her brother.  
  
Hansel, of course, catches it easily. “What was that for?” he asks, tossing the stone into the air and catching it again a few times. Show-off.  
  
“Just keeping you sharp.”  
  
“Hey! I’m like a well-honed knife!” Hansel claims, hopping down to join Ben and her as they make their way down the road, back toward the cover of the trees and their waiting camp. Normally, Gretel would suggest they take advantage of the town’s inn, a ready cooked meal and hot water – another bath would be lovely – but she knows Hansel will never agree to it here, not with the church tower casting a shadow over the roofs.  
  
Ben laughs and then has to make a run for it when Hansel mock growls at him, taking chase. Gretel rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. At least Hansel is no longer casting worried glances behind them as if expecting a crowd of angry townsfolk to descend on them any minute. 

 

  
  
Later, they eat lunch and come up with a search plan, maps spread out over a flat patch of ground. This particular witch has been proven hard to find, which, Gretel thinks, is a blessing in disguise as it means that none of the locals have lost their lives playing heroes. All anyone knows is that she must live somewhere close enough to swoop by and steal livestock a couple of times a month. That in itself, whilst annoying, is still tolerable. What had made the Mayor finally send a word requesting their service was that last month the witch had graduated from chickens to a human baby.  
  
None of them hold out much hope of getting the child back, at least not alive. They are, however, determined to ensure that the witch won’t take anyone else.  
  
It’s too late to go traipsing any deeper into the woods today so they’re preparing for an early start. Ben and Hansel use the afternoon for target practice. They are pretty evenly matched and after a while Hansel dispenses with the weaponry and starts teaching Ben how to fight without it. Hand-to-hand skills are something that Ben still has catching up to do, despite the fact that he’s been having – reluctant – lessons pretty much since he joined their ragtag group of hunters.  
  
Still, not everyone has had to fight for their lives since they were too young to fully comprehend why.  
  
Normally, Hansel would get Gretel to demonstrate a move with him, but nowadays she has some training of her own to do.  
  
“Come on, Edward,” she calls. “Let’s go blow up something.”  
  
Edward grins in a way that reveals a truly terrifying row of teeth and follows her. There’s a clearing a little ways off, something that used to be a field but was obviously abandoned some years ago and left to grow wild again, probably because the ground is too littered with rocks to make farming worth the effort.  
  
It suits their purpose perfectly though. Edward digs out a number of boulders, ranging from the size of his head to the ones no bigger than Gretel’s fist, and arranges them in a neat pile next to him. Gretel uses the time to ground herself, trying to push Frau Abendrode, the impending hunt and Hansel’s bad mood out of her mind.  
  
The light inside is a little easier to find each time, a little quicker to come flooding back, the witch’s house with two bloodied and battle-worn children just waiting for her to come and visit. She gathers up the image, the memory, like spooling a thread of yarn, and wraps it around her heart. When she feels the power is steady enough she opens her eyes, finds Edward patiently waiting with the first large rock in his hand.  
  
“Alright,” she says, nodding firmly. “Let’s do this.”  
  
Edward grunts in acknowledgement and throws the missile high in the air. Gretel follows the arch with her eyes, shapes the energy between her hands like a snowball, takes aim and…  
  
Misses. The ball of light whizzes right pass the flying rock, although it gives a nearby fir a good shaking, a flock of angry starlings protesting the treatment of their resting place with a flurry of wings.  
  
“Again.”  
  
Edward picks up another rock, this one bigger, and lops it straight at Gretel. She startles, bringing up her arms like a shield, a dome of light warping around her. The stone shatters harmlessly against it.  
  
They keep going for good part of an hour, Edward alternating the size and direction of targets. Gretel doesn’t destroy them all but she catches more than she misses so that’s something.  
  
She’s so focused on what she’s doing that she misses their audience until an appreciative wolf-whistle pierces the evening after a particularly spectacular explosion.  
  
“Whoo! Go Gretel!” Ben punches the air jubilantly, clapping his hands. “You’re getting really good at that!”  
  
Gretel shrugs though she can’t help but grin in response, feeling just a tiny bit pleased by her progress. Behind Ben, Hansel is watching her intently, a small matching smile hovering on his lips.  
  
“That shield thing,” he says, putting his weapons down, “can you do that again?”  
  
“I…” Gretel blinks, shakes her hands like that has anything to do with it. “Probably. Why?”  
  
“Give us a boost then,” Hansel says, and then he’s running, full tilt and straight at her.  
  
Gretel realises what he’s about to do a split second before he does it, launching himself in the air like he’s planning to tackle her to the ground except his knees are drawn up and if he lands on her like that someone is going to end up with a concussion or worse. Gretel curses, throws up her hands half in instinct, the blue force field crackling to life between Hansel’s boots and her head just as the two are about to make unfortunate contact. Instead kicking her face in, Hansel’s feet find purchase, his knees bending to accommodate the landing, Gretel’s doing the same to counter the sudden and not insignificant weight of her brother.  
  
They both come up at the same time, Gretel’s arms straightening to lift, lift, _lift_ and with a whoop of pure joy Hansel is in the air again, tucking himself into a showy barrel roll before landing on his feet on the ground a few meters behind Gretel.  
  
“Are you crazy!?” she yells, turning around at the same time as he triumphantly shouts: “That was amazing!”  
  
Her heart is slamming against her ribs and she feels like she can’t catch her breath no matter how much she tries, and it has nothing to do with the dangerous stunt her brother just pulled and everything to do with the way he is looking at her, grin wide and feral, eyes half-lidded, like he could… Like he wants to…  
  
The magic crackles along her arms and Hansel sways closer as if drawn. The air is suddenly alive with static, every hair standing to attention and Gretel knows she should step back and away, that this is the line they’ve been toeing since they were old enough to know there was one, but…  
  
She doesn’t want to.  
  
In the end, it’s Hansel who breaks the moment. She feels it like a physical blow when he wrenches his gaze away from hers.  
  
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice tight. Then he clears his throat, looks somewhere over Gretel’s shoulder. “That was great,” he says. “Needs more practice though.”  
  
She nods mutely, suddenly exhausted and numb.  
  
“Well, how about some dinner then?” Ben asks, clapping his hands together, full of jolliness and ‘nothing-to-see-here’. “I’m starving.”  
  
Edward and Hansel grunt in assent and the whole group files back toward the camp in silence, Gretel bringing up the rear.

 

 

  
  
The following morning, Hansel is still tense, his answers short and gaze avoiding everyone. They break camp, storing and hiding most of their belongings nearby before heading in the direction of their best guess for the witch’s hideout. It’s a long hike, and visible paths melt away within the first hour, leaving them to scramble over fallen tree trunks and through the undergrowth that’s thick enough in places to require Edward to simply pull things out of the ground with his bare hands. Even a blind man could follow the trail they’re leaving but Gretel’s not exactly concerned about that right now.  
  
While Edward seems uncaring about Hansel’s mood, his silence is unnerving Ben enough that the young man is trying to fill it with a constant prattle. He’s talking about Father Oderman’s ideas for the church and the surrounding area, waxing lyrical about the planned schoolhouse. Gretel thinks it could be good for the kids and says so.  
  
Hansel, however, disagrees. “It’s not enough he’s got the Mayor in the palm of his hand, all the good and the great of the town scraping and bowing in the shadow of the cross, now he wants the children too?”  
  
Ben’s eyes widen. “Father Oderman isn’t like that. I know some priests, they don’t… understand,” he finishes lamely, that one word wholly inadequate for the level of misunderstanding usually displayed by the clergy when it comes to witchcraft and those who practice it, the kind that comes with ducking stools and pyres and pointless death.  
  
“Save it” Hansel snaps, stalking off as much as one can in the terrain.  
  
It’s not that Gretel doesn’t see his point. They’ve both witnessed enough misguided efforts to purify villages, enough suffering in the name of a faceless god, to be anything but suspicious of the church. But this… This seems like something more.  
  
She gives Ben’s shoulder a quick squeeze of consolation and pushes after her brother, leaving the others behind, still close enough to be within sight but far enough for some privacy.  
  
“Hansel!” she calls, and when that has no effect: “Wait, please.”  
  
He slows down enough to allow her to catch up with him. “What the hell?” she asks, stepping in front of him and forcing him to a temporary stop. “You know Ben didn’t deserve that. And you know of all the priests we’ve come across, Father Oderman is probably the least… priestly.” She sighs, trying to catch his eyes. “I told you about the herb garden. And Frau Abendrode. What she gave us…”  
  
Hansel sighs. “I know,” he says, hand going to his side, patting over where the new medicine vials are stored safely. “I am… grateful. It’s not her.”  
  
“It’s not Father Oderman either,” she counters. “He chooses not to know what Frau Abendrode is doing, what she is. And in doing that he protects her. Knowingly. So what’s with the sudden increase in hostility? It’s not like Ben is suggesting we take up regular worship at his church.”  
  
Hansel barks out a laugh without any amusement in it. “As if they’d let us,” he says, harsh and vicious. “Too busy sitting in judgement of others.”  
  
Gretel frowns. “What…?”  
  
“Who are they?” he asks, hand suddenly tight around Gretel’s arm, “To decree what is right, what a _sin?_ ” He spits on the ground, features hard. “They know _nothing._ ” His eyes are flat and full of contempt, mouth sneering, and suddenly Gretel knows _exactly_ what this is.  
  
Fear.  
  
The realisation hits her with a bone deep certainty, and she goes cold, then hot as the magic suddenly rushes forward like she’s in need of defending. Hansel drops her arm like he’s burned and maybe…  
  
Maybe he is.  
  
They stare at each other wordlessly for a few, infinite seconds. Then Ben and Edward catch up with them and the moment breaks, Hansel turning away, resuming his slow progress through the forest floor.

 

 

  
  
They find the witch’s house in the late afternoon. There’s no sign of candy or gingerbread, thankfully. Gretel isn’t at all convinced either of them could have handled that right now.  
  
There’s also no sign of the witch itself, which is slightly more worrying.  
  
“Nothing to it but wait,” Ben sums up the situation. He and Hansel take the perimeter, while Edward and Gretel stake out the house itself.  
  
There’s an old, gnarled tree that provides enough cover to hide even a fully grown troll from anyone approaching from the air as they assume the owner of this dilapidated shack of rotting wood and moss will.  
  
Gretel kind of wants to sit down, but the ground around the cottage is damp and full of crawling things, like the witch’s evil has seeped into the very earth itself, corrupting everything it touches. It’s enough to try and stand still, to keep her magic simmering under the surface, her mind on the hunt at hand rather than the memory of Hansel’s face, the sharp flash of fear, the desperate hunger underneath.  
  
Gretel breathes in the smell of death, flicks away a millipede that drops onto her arm, and thinks about plausible deniability. About how quickly it runs out.  
  
Not as quick as the witch though, dropping from the sky with a furious screech, tree branches exploding in a shower of splinters as she hurls her magic ahead of her.  
  
Gretel and Edward dive for cover.  
  
The witch swoops down low, raking the ground as she goes, clumps of earth flying everywhere. Gretel rolls, throwing up her shield the last minute before one of the larger stones, dislodged in the foray, hits her in the face. She comes up covered in dirt and fuming, but the witch is already flying toward the forest, her long scraggly hair trailing after her.  
  
“Shit!” Gretel yells, already running. “The others!”  
  
She doesn’t get far because suddenly _another_ witch, identical to the first, burst from between the trees, Ben dangling from her hand.  
  
“Edward!” Gretel shouts, pointing, but the troll is already there, running to meet this new threat with great, bounding steps that make the ground shake.  
  
Gretel takes aim, her magic surging up like a river at spring, full of the golden sunlight of that first morning as it rushes up, up and out from her spread fingertips, catching the witch square in the chest and knocking her off her broom.  
  
She falls with an enraged scream, but so does Ben, his shout more of a panicked yelp. It’s cut short, not by the hard ground but Edward’s large hands, snatching him up from mid-air. He sets him gently on the ground, and by the time the witch is back on her feet, Ben and Edward are already facing her.  
  
Gretel spares them just enough of a glance to reassure herself that they have this unexpected variable covered, before she sprints toward the forest. Hansel is without back-up and though she knows he’s more than capable of handling one skinny witch on his own, she’d rather be there to witness it. Just in case.  
  
Even though the evening has fallen and the visibility under the treetops is getting steadily worse, the sounds of the fighting are easy to follow and Gretel finds the witch and her brother quickly enough. Both are bleeding; she from a crossbow bolt through her arm, he from a nasty gash across his forehead.  
  
The witch is off her broom, the remnants of which are scattered on the ground. She’s clever enough not to try using her magic directly on Hansel – their reputation has clearly travelled this far – but rocks and branches and exploding earth can still hurt, never mind if the force behind them is magic or not.  
  
Ideally, Gretel would just sneak up on her from behind and remove the threat quickly, quietly and efficiently.  
  
Unfortunately, it is not to be.  
  
It’s Hansel that gives the game away. He ducks out from behind an oak tree, takes aim, sees Gretel almost exactly behind the witch and frantically jerks to the side, the shot going wide. For a second Gretel is completely thrown. Hansel’s never, not once, shot her by accident – a couple of times on purpose sure, but taking an occasional arrow to the meaty part of your body for the good of the hunt was an occupational hazard – so his sudden lack of faith at his own abilities to hit the target and nothing else is… Worrying.  
  
It also has unforeseen consequences.  
  
The witch hisses in surprise, whirling around, mouth already forming the words.  
  
Gretel throws up the shield in time but the force of exploding earth throws her backwards anyway.  
  
“Gretel!” Hansel’s shout is way more panicked than it needs to be. Gretel pushes herself up to her feet just in time to see him running toward her, heedless of the witch who is already gathering herself for the next attack.  
  
“Watch out!” Gretel yells, but it’s too late.  
  
The witch throws what amounts to a small tree at Hansel, knocking him sideways. Gretel curses, her magic surging up and out, white hot and angry, but the witch is quick on her feet and already moving. She reaches the fallen Hansel, and drags him up by his hair. He’s still conscious but too out of it to put up much of a fight, arms scrabbling for purchase, uncoordinated and futile as the witch pulls his head back. Before Gretel has managed to do more than take two steps in their direction, the hag has a long, curved knife pressed against Hansel’s exposed throat.  
  
_“Sssstaayyy,”_ she hisses, spittle flying freely. Her eyes glitter in the dusk.  
  
Gretel freezes.  
  
“Good girl,” the witch says, “Wouldn’t want this pretty brother of yoursss to lose his good lookssss, now would we?” She strokes a thumb down Hansel’s face, over his mouth.  
  
He flinches visibly, but the movement only presses the blade tighter against his neck.  
  
The witch grins. Her teeth are like needles.  
  
“What do you want?” Gretel asks. She’s not really interested in the answer, certainly has no intention of giving her anything but five separate graves, but hopefully a little conversation will keep her occupied until Gretel can figure out a way to get her hothead of a brother out of this alive and whole.  
  
“Well ideally I’d like you and this piece of trashhh,” she shakes Hansel illustratively, “dead, but I’ll settle for an exchange. My sissster,” the hag’s eyes flicker back toward the house, “for your brother.”  
  
Gretel is almost certain the witch’s twin is already in pieces, unless Ben and Edward have really messed up. And whilst that’s a good thing in general, it does leave Gretel without anything to bargain with.  
  
“That could be arranged…” When in doubt, bluff. “Only, I’d have to go talk to my associates about that. What’s stopping you from slitting his throat while I’m gone?”  
  
The witch licks her lips like the mere idea is something delicious. In her grip Hansel is blinking slowly, his eyes a little bit clearer each time. Gretel feels light with relief.  
  
It doesn’t last long.  
  
“Are you _ssssure_ it would be such a bad thing if I did jussst that?” the witch asks, pressing the knife against Hansel’s Adam’s apple, hard enough to make him grunt in pain. “Could be doing you a favour.”  
  
Gretel exhales slowly, fighting to keep hold of her magic which is howling at her to be let loose. “What the hell are you talking about?”  
  
The witch laughs. It’s a thick, wet sound, like falling into a pile of rotting leaves, brown with decay and full of worms. “Sssooo ssssweet,” she whispers, “how your sister caresss for you.” She’s talking to Hansel’s ear now though her eyes never leave Gretel’s face. “I wonder what would happen if she knew, hmm? Whether she’d still care if I cut your throat or not?”  
  
“Knew what?” Gretel asks but the witch ignores her.  
  
“Such wicked thoughtssss, such dark needssss you harbour.” She cards her bony fingers through Hansel’s hair in a mockery of a caress. “I’m almost impressssed.”  
  
Hansel starts struggling in earnest now, seemingly heedless of the blade still dangerously close to his jugular. There’s something very much like genuine fear flooding his features, his movements panicked, uncoordinated.  
  
“Hansel!” Gretel can’t help the warning, the _plea_ that slips out. She can get them out of this – she hopes – but not if Hansel accidentally garrottes himself first.  
  
“Aww, issssn’t that sssweeet?” Every elongated hiss sprays spittle, the hag’s chin glistening with it. “See how much your sister caresss for your wellbeing?” She jerks Hansel’s head back up, forcing him to meet Gretel’s eyes. “Do you think she’d care as much if she knew what you want to do to her? What you want _her_ to do to _you._ ”  
  
And there it is. What was unspoken, if not unknown, put to words. The frayed safety net around this enormous, not-really-a-secret of theirs erased by some second-rate witch who got lucky and Gretel…  
  
Gretel is furious. How _dare_ this stranger, who is barely even a person anymore, so steeped in evil that she knows nothing of family, or love, or loyalty, how dare she use this as some kind of twisted blackmail.  
  
Because this? This is _theirs._  
  
Except… Except Hansel doesn’t know that. The realisation hits her like a kick to the chest as she watches her brother struggle, his face grey and desperate. Hansel thinks this is _his,_ not _theirs,_ that despite everything they’ve been through, he’s alone in this. Gretel pushes down the anger and self-crimination, the deep ache of sadness for her brother, and she laughs and laughs and laughs. It’s loud and not very nice, with a sharp of edge of madness and for one, dark moment Gretel thinks she may just trip right over and into the abyss.  
  
Her laughter causes the witch and Hansel both to freeze in surprise and the look on her brother’s face pulls Gretel back to the present.  
  
She’s still angry though, but through it amusement flows like venom, bitter and deadly.  
  
_“Sweet?”_ she asks and laughs again, short and nasty enough that both Hansel and the witch holding him flinch. “If you think there’s anything ‘sweet’ or ‘innocent’ about my brother and me, if you think there’s _anything_ you can tell me that I don’t already _know…”_ She’s walked closer without a conscious decision to move, without any of them really noticing it and when her hand closes around the blade, the witch startles badly enough for her grip to slacken. “You are _sorely_ mistaken,” Gretel finishes with a smile that splits her face like the knife splits her palm as she wrenches it away from her brother’s throat.  
  
Hansel rolls out of the way, scrambling to his feet, his eyes wide and dark, face white with shock. The knife drops to the ground with a dull thud.  
  
“In fact,” Gretel says, “I think it’s time for you to pay for _all_ your mistakes.”  
  
The witch had reared back in surprise but was already gathering her wits, magic crackling from her fingertips. Gretel doesn’t take her gaze away from her, simply reaches behind herself with her bloodied hand, feels the moment Hansel grabs it like a shot of electricity.  
  
And suddenly the magic that has been simmering under the surface roars up, amplified by her brother’s touch, the hand in her hand as they stand together once more, bloodied and victorious. Because this witch too is dead. She just doesn’t know it yet.  
  
Everything happens in slow motion. Gretel sees their opponent release her power, aimed at the ground in front of them but somehow there’s plenty of time for her to flick her hand, to redirect the witch’s magic harmlessly to the side. Clumps of dirt and broken pieces of tree roots are thrown into the air but Gretel shields herself and Hansel effortlessly from the spray.  
  
Gretel grins and reaches through the still flying debris, lays her other hand over the witch’s chest and _now_ she knows, her mouth opening in a wordless scream as she sees death coming for her. Under Gretel’s palm the witch’s black and withered heart stutters, once, twice, and then… stops.  
  
Silently, the body crumbles to the forest floor, nothing but an empty husk now.  
  
Gretel sways on her feet, and would have followed suit if not for Hansel who catches her with a strong arm around her middle, keeps her standing.  
  
For a while they stay like that, back to chest, getting their breath back. Then, as if catching himself, Hansel takes a step back.  
  
“Jesus,” he says, running a hand through his hair when Gretel turns around. There’s blood on his face, the wound on his forehead still bleeding sluggishly “You can just… kill with a touch now?”  
  
“No, I…” Gretel swallows, starts again. “Yes. Maybe. But only because of you,” she tries to explain. “Because she had you, and you are not hers to have!” She takes a deep breath, keeping rein of her magic that wants to reach out to her brother again. “And this?” Gretel squeezes Hansel’s hand before letting go. “Was not hers to know. It’s _ours._ ” She spits the last word out, defiant.  
  
Hansel’s eyes widen. “Gretel…”  
  
“You remember what you said to me when I healed Edward’s leg?” Grete interrupts. “That you knew where the magic came from, what that place within me was, because you were there with me?”  
  
Hansel nods slowly, gaze hooded.  
  
“It’s the same,” Gretel says. The smile on her face feels tremulous, daring. “I know _this_ because I’m _with you._ ” She reaches out then and cups her brother’s face, just briefly, leaving behind smears of blood, thumb swiping over his mouth once, testing.  
  
She watches the understanding dawn, the fear falling away and replaced with wonder, with love so fierce she feels it like a lance through her. Hansel inhales shakily, and then, slowly and deliberately, licks Gretel’s blood off his lips, eyes never leaving hers.  
  
The desire punches into her hard enough to leave her gasping, her fingers curling up in anticipation of raking over her brother’s skin, of pushing into his mouth and…  
  
“Hansel!” Ben’s voice calls from somewhere nearby. “Gretel! Are you alright?!”  
  
They jerk apart just as Edward and Ben crash through the trees, weapons drawn.  
  
“We’re fine,” Hansel says, already heading to pick his shotgun where it had fallen. If his voice sounds rough, then that’s completely understandable after the fight they’ve all had and no one comments.

 

 

  
  
They collect their payment the next day, Hansel unceremoniously throwing two identical heads at the Mayor’s feet. To his credit he only takes one stumbling step backward, before catching himself. The gathered crowd, on the other hand, gasps loudly and suddenly there’s a whole hell of a lot more room around the four witch hunters.  
  
“Problem solved,” Gretel says.  
  
Ben clears his throat meaningfully. “I believe the agreed price was a bagful of silver?”  
  
The Mayor stares at the two severed heads for a beat longer. Then, without a word, he fumbles the money purse loose from his belt and tosses it over.  
  
The people cheer. It’s genuine, but with a distinctive note of unease. The kind of cheer that says: ‘we’re really happy with what you’ve done but now kindly leave and go do it somewhere else’.  
  
Which is fine. It’s not like Gretel was planning on settling down around here. Or anywhere for that matter.  
  
There is, however, one stop she has to make before they leave entirely.  
  
“Give me a few hours,” she tells the others once they get to the edge of the town.  
  
Hansel looks at her for a long, silent moment, his eyes flicking toward the church tower visible above the rooftops. He knows where she’s headed alright.  
  
It’s not that Gretel needs his permission, but she’s still relieved when he nods once, sharply, before turning away, the three of them heading to dismantle their campsite.  
  
Nobody talks to her as she walks through the town, although some people nod respectfully in greeting. Most folk simply avoid her, scurrying past with their faces turned down. The smaller children – the ones still unburdened by fear – stare at her openly, some grinning wide enough to show missing teeth. Gretel likes them the best.  
  
The church is same as before. She sees Father Oderman in the grave yard, talking to a young woman dressed in black. Neither of them notice her and Gretel ensures it stays that way, taking a slightly circular route to the herb storage.  
  
Frau Abendrode is waiting for her.  
  
It’s dark in the storage room, even in the middle of the day, and Gretel lets her eyes adjust for a moment before she picks her way toward the back. There’s a small hearth tucked in the corner, carefully enclosed with bricks and mortar on three sides, a generous area of flat stones in the front. Gretel guesses it wouldn’t take a lot to make a wooden barn full of dried herbs to go up in smoke.  
  
She accepts the mug of steaming tea that’s unceremoniously pushed into her hands, and sits on one of the sturdier looking crates.  
  
They drink in companionable silence for a while. Gretel feels herself relaxing, tension seeping out with each swallow. She’d suspect the old woman for lacing the tea with something to help with that but know it’s simply exhaustion catching up with her, the feeling of safety she gets here, despite the shadow of the church, and even the taut pull of _soon_ that tethers her and Hansel at the moment seems somehow less brittle.  
  
“When I was a young girl,” Frau Abendrode starts, refreshing their cups with more hot water, “I found a fox caught in a snare.” Her eyes are distant, looking over Gretel’s shoulder and somewhere beyond the present.  
  
For the rest of the afternoon, Frau Abendrode talks and Gretel listens. She learns more in those few hours that she has in all the time of reading her mother’s Grimoires. When she mentions the book, the old woman mutters what sounds like a prayer. She doesn’t ask to see it, although Gretel thinks that if she comes this way again she’ll make sure to drop in with the book.  
  
Then Frau Abendrode starts asking questions, pointed ones that Gretel doesn’t want to answer but knows she owes her this much, if not more.  
  
“Blood magic,” she says when Gretel hesitantly describes the clearing outside the witch’s house, the one that exists inside her, the one that is still there in reality too. She wonders if they end returning there for the third time.  
  
“Very powerful.” Fray Abendrode nods, as if to herself. “Blood spilled by you. Blood spilled for you. Blood shared between you.” It’s like an incantation, the way she says it, the words making the hair on Gretel’s arms stand right up.  
  
“Is that… bad?” she asks. She doesn’t want to, but there will never be a better opportunity. Her mother is dead, Mina is dead, and she thinks she knows the answer but doesn’t trust herself not to lie to herself about this, not when she wants it this much.  
  
“Bad?” Frau Abendrode laughs, a dry crack of a sound. “Nothing bad about blood, child. It’s what keeps us going, delivers babies, flows to put food on the table.”  
  
“And men into their graves.”  
  
“That too,” the old woman concedes easily. “The other end of the circle.”  
  
Gretel frowns. “But a circle has no ends.”  
  
“Now you get it,” Frau Abendrode says, smiling.  
  
And maybe she does.  
  
“Come on then.” The old crone gets to her feet, signalling the end of the conversation. “I got something else for you, before you leave.”  
  
Gretel watches her sort through the bags on the table, each tied neatly with a variety of materials, and with a variety of different knots – a clever system of telling things apart without having to open the parcels every time. Finally, she selects one – brown leather, twelve dark beads in the string around it – and throws it over.  
  
Gretel catches it onehanded and when no explanation is forthcoming, opens it enough pull out a pinch. She spreads the dried herb mixture on her palm, rubs it with her fingers to release the scent. There’s thyme and marjoram, lavender flowers, brake and… She swallows, recognising neat pieces of worm fern root.  
  
“Father Oderman is not going to turn a blind eye to this,” Gretel says, somewhat shakily. She knows what she’s holding here.  
  
Frau Abendrode doesn’t wave it off like her other worries. “Father Oderman will never have to bury someone with their stillborn baby because a woman with a body weakened by five children and hard life couldn’t fight off her husband,” she says. “That’s enough.”  
  
Gretel nods. She accepts the gift – all three bags, “Not much chance for drying herbs in your line of work, I’m guessing,” Frau Abendrode says – for what it is.

 

 

  
  
The summer turns toward autumn slowly enough to be almost imperceptible at first. Gradually, the days get shorter, Gretel blinking awake before the sun, lying in the darkness and listening to the steady breathing of her companions. There’s a bite to the wind, one that the daylight will soon banish but she knows it won’t be long until that won’t be the case.  
  
They spent the last winter travelling lands that didn’t know the word, but she and Hansel have a strategy in place for surviving them here, where the cold will kill you as surely as an arrow to the heart if you’re not prepared. It mostly involves stocking up their stores, the few permanent hidey-holes that they’ve cultivated over the years, and ensuring they demand room and board as part-payment for jobs.  
  
She’s not sure at first how that’s going to work with a troll in tow and doesn’t really know how to approach the subject. And then, when she finally does, Ben points out the obvious, making her feel relieved and like an idiot at the same time.  
  
“Edward’s a mountain troll,” Ben says, rolling his eyes. “Emphasis on the _mountain._ As in ‘used to the bitter cold’ and ‘probably resents hot summer days actually’ and…” They both look over at Edward whose face is turned to the east, toward the snow-covered peaks that are waiting, hidden behind the treetops.  
  
“…and that’s where he’s going, isn’t he?” Gretel finishes, remembering the cave they’d sheltered in only a couple of months earlier.  
  
Edward turns back to them, his low rumble confirming her realisation, the sound of it like a distant avalanche.  
  
“Yeah,” Ben agrees. “And soon, I think.”  
  
In the next few days the leaves start changing colour, yellow and red like dried blood creeping in around the edges, the green of summer turning dull and dark. The air smells rich and moist, sweet with decay. The taste of it sits on her tongue, ripe and almost cloying, and when Gretel pushes her hands into the earth, the magic in her blood sings a lullaby, not a lament. _The other end of the circle,_ she thinks, getting dirt under her fingernails and leaving it there.  
  
One morning, Gretel and Ben wake up to find Edward gone.  
  
Hansel is sitting cross-legged by the fire, a hare cooking on a spit above it. He’s clearly been up for a while, if he’s had time to go check the snares they set last night.  
  
“Left when the stars were still out,” he says, answering their unvoiced question.  
  
Ben makes a face somewhere between smug and sad, and Gretel feels it too, Edward’s absence leaving a surprisingly big hole in their little group – one that has nothing to do with the troll’s physical size.  
  
“I think he’s coming back though.”  
  
“He say something?” Ben asks, and the siblings raise identical eyebrows in amusement. “C’mon, you know what I mean!” Ben huffs, waving a hand at them.  
  
“No, he didn’t say,” Hansel concedes. “But I got a feeling.”  
  
A feeling is not going to sustain them through the winter though. She accepts the plateful of meat and bread, settling to eat her breakfast while Hansel explains to Ben their usual approach to ensuring they don’t starve or freeze before Yule.  
  
Ben listens with his head tilted to the side. “Okay,” he says finally, the slight frown on his face easing into a confident smile, “but it’s going to be much easier this year, right?”  
  
Hansel blinks, looking over but Gretel can only shrug in response. She doesn’t have a clue either. “What do you mean, this year?”  
  
Ben stares at the two of them like they’re being deliberately obtuse. “Because this year you’ve got me,” he says slowly and then, when it’s clear that doesn’t actually clarify things one bit: “And I have a family back in Augsburg who are obligated to take in me and mine. Well,” he amends, grinning widely now, “they might have suggested Edward stays in with the horses – the house isn’t _that_ big – but that’s not an issue now.”  
  
The offer is incredibly generous, but – Hansel and Gretel argue – it isn’t really Ben’s to make, no matter how certain he seems that his family will open their arms to welcome a pair of witch hunters that have snatched up their boy – “Hey, I _chose_ to come!” – and taken him from one dangerous hunt to the next for a year and half.  
  
In the end they compromise: Ben will head to Augsburg on his own first so that he can both demonstrate being alive and well, and tactfully ask about having his friends stay over. Hansel and Gretel agree to follow in a couple of weeks, to see if Ben’s high estimate of his family’s hospitality holds true.  
  
“We’re not asking to stay for the whole winter,” Gretel reminds him firmly. “Just… a few days here and there. When the weather gets very bad. And we still get hunts. Not many but...” She shrugs.  
  
Hansel nods. “We’ll work. It won’t be charity.”  
  
Ben argues back for a while, seemingly convinced that the whole of Augsburg will throw open their doors after what they’ve done, but Gretel knows how short people’s memories are, how well they know that a dangerous weapon is still dangerous, even if it was used for your benefit once upon a time. He’ll find out soon enough, and she can only hope his family will put them up for a little while, for Ben’s sake.  
  
“I’ll see you in a few weeks then,” he says finally, adjusting his backpack.  
  
“Yes,” Gretel says, “We promise.”  
  
Ben nods once, serious, and then pulls both of them into a fierce quick hug before he turns around, disappearing around the bend of the road in a few minutes.  
  
And then they are alone, completely alone for the first time in over a year. Gretel swallows, closing her eyes briefly, hearing nothing but the rustle of leaves in the wind, and the nervous catch in her brother’s breathing, the scrape of gravel as he shifts his weight from one foot to another.  
  
She’s pretty sure neither of them really thought this through.

 

 

  
  
In the absence of anything better to do, they fall back into their old routine of stocking up their stores. There are several small villages between them and Augsburg, especially when one takes a meandering route, and they hit most of them, bartering fresh kills for dried meats and fruits, pickled vegetables, anything that will keep. Some of their hidden stockpiles are empty, some have simply gone off, which is unsurprising given that it’s been almost two years since they last checked them. The money and backup weapons are still there though, which is a relief.  
  
They’re working hard – harder than they really need to, especially if the promised welcome in Augsburg materialises – but the sudden absence of Ben and Edward to act as a buffer means they need something to keep busy. Avoidance sure does wonders for one’s productivity, Gretel muses drily to herself. She’s still not ready to break the pattern though, the tentative understanding they’ve settled on since the almost-admission feels too fragile for that.  
  
Of course, just like the last time, it’s the circumstances that break it for them.  
  
They haven’t been looking for witch hunts, focusing on deer and boars instead, things that carry value beyond simply being dead.  
  
One finds them anyway.  
  
They’re making their way toward a small village, this one close enough to Augsburg that Gretel thinks they might push on tomorrow and make it there by the evening if they set off early enough. Although if the weather is as bad as it is today, she’d rather spend some of their silver for a night on someone’s floor. The rain is relentless and cold, sending icy rivulets down her back where it manages to sneak under her coat collar. The temperature has plummeted, and while it’s still a couple of weeks from the first frost, it’s miserable enough that the prospect of a rug by the fire sounds like heaven.  
  
Gretel is so focused on her daydream and blocking out the rain, that when Hansel suddenly stops, she walks right into him. Or, to be more precise, she walks into the deer carcass that they’ve been carrying between them but that now does its very best to trip her up because Hansel’s dropped his end without a warning.  
  
“What…?” She stumbles to halt and lets go off their catch before it catches her in post-mortem revenge.  
  
_“Shh!”_ Hansel hushes her, hand clasping around her arm like a vice.  
  
Gretel would protest but there’s urgency to his movements, his body taut with tension, and once she looks past him, she sees the reason for it.  
  
There’s a witch’s hut, sitting not ten meters from where they’ve come to a halt. It’s new, it must be, because they’ve been this way before, to barter with the same village, and there’s never been any sightings before.  
  
“Well, _shit,”_ she hisses, hand already going for her weapon. They’ve walked right into this one, unprepared sure, but not defenceless and…  
  
And yet so very late.  
  
The witch gets a drop on them from above, launching herself at them from one of the trees, eerily silent. It’s an unusually hands-on approach and Gretel quickly figures out why, because this one can _fight_ with her body as well as her magic. Her boot connects with Gretel’s shoulder hard enough that she sees stars, and she knows that if she’d been a fraction of a second slower her neck would be as broken as the deer’s.  
  
Hansel rolls, going for the knife because the witch is too close for anything else, but gets nothing but a shallow nick in before she whirls to the side.  
  
“You okay?” he shouts, diving out of the way when the witch finally brings magic to the play, splintering a tree stump that Hansel had been crouched in front of.  
  
“Fine. I’m…” Gretel gags, fighting nausea as she struggles to her feet. Her whole arm is numb from the impact, although her shoulder is screaming in agony enough to more than make up for it.  
  
The witch flicks her magic like a whip, red and burning as it cuts through earth and stone. Gretel throws up her shield, but it’s weak and patchy, letting some of the onslaught through.  
  
Hansel is yelling at the witch, trying to bring her attention back to him, and Gretel is both grateful and annoyed. At least he’s learned from the last time, and doing a decent job of not being distracted by Gretel. That’s a good thing, because no matter this thing between them, they still have to fight, to win.  
  
Not that they’re doing such a good job of it at the moment.  
  
There’s a familiar twang of crossbow, then another, but Gretel hears both arrows missing their targets, sailing off to the forest beyond. This witch is _good,_ and apart for an enraged hiss that tells Gretel that at least one of Hansel’s shots came close enough to inconvenience, she’s not wasting her breath on talking.  
  
A weapon is out of the question. Gretel knows it’ll take at least a couple of more minutes until she can grip anything heavier than a leaf in her hand. Magic isn’t about physical strength, but even so her concentration is wavering, pain and Hansel’s desperate fight to stay one step ahead of the witch pulling at the edges of her mind. The light, when it comes, is flickering and Gretel has to bite her lip, the taste of blood finally enough to provide an anchor of sorts, something to focus on. She inhales sharply and sends out a blast, catching the witch in the middle of her back.  
  
It’s enough to send her sprawling to the ground and for a moment Gretel thinks it’s over. Hansel is edging closer, crossbow at the ready. The witch seems unconscious at the very least, although Gretel is hoping for something more permanent than that.  
  
No such luck.  
  
As soon as Hansel is within touching distance, the witch explodes into action, not even stunned. Her hand grips Hansel’s ankle, wrenching his feet from under him. She uses the momentum to her advantage, up and moving, heaving Hansel’s struggling body around in a low arch that ends with a sickening crack as his head meets the trunk of a nearby tree.  
  
When she finally lets go off his leg, he lies still and doesn’t get up again.  
  
Gretel feels gorge rise at the back of her throat, has to swallow it down, digging nails of her good hand into her palm to keep from running to Hansel. She stands her ground, watches the witch straighten up, turn to face her.  
  
She’s smiling. Beautiful like Muriel, and smart, so _very smart,_ Gretel can see it, all the deadly potential of her. She could be terrible. Another Grand Witch in the waiting.  
  
She won’t get the chance.  
  
Gretel smiles back and inside her two young children are holding hands, smiling alongside her. The magic floods her veins, born of blood, fed by it, and the intensity makes her hair stand on end, her teeth ache, fallen leaves dancing around her feet.  
  
With a flash so bright the gloomy afternoon looks like midsummer for a second or two the witch is thrown back and up, her feet dangling in the air, head tipped back and mouth open in a silent scream. The lightning pierces her like a sword, crackling through her in blue and white forks of power. There’s a part of Gretel that is horrified of what she’s capable of, what she’s doing, but then her eyes land on Hansel, lying still on the ground and she grits her teeth and wrenches her hands apart with a pained shout. The magic leaps, pulses and with a sound like a wet sheet shaken open the witch is torn apart, bloody chunks falling to the ground.  
  
The lightning keeps going.  
  
It finds the witch’s house, dark and lopsided, and wraps around it like a snare. The pull of it makes Gretel arch, her spine bending, arms stretched forward and bathed in light that pours from her chest. She gasps, tasting something metallic and with a boom that’s more pressure than noise, the house explodes.  
  
The wave of it sends her backwards, down onto the forest floor. The rain has stopped and the air smells… hollow. Empty. For a few seconds the world grinds to a halt, nothing but her own ragged breath penetrating the silence.  
  
Then Gretel’s eyes snap open, and she turns her head to the side to see the crumbled figure of her brother. She heaves herself to her feet and stumbles over.  
  
“Hansel!” She falls to her knees by his side, gingerly turns him over, wiping mud and wet leaves off his face. Her hands come back bloody. “Hansel… Come on, come on…” Her shaking fingers fumble at the collar, pushing jacket and shirt aside to get to the skin and there… A pulse.  
  
She bites back a sob of relief, pressing against the strong, even beat of her brother’s heart.  
  
He coughs, eyelids fluttering open. “What?” Hansel coughs again, a painful, ragged sound as he determinedly pushes with his hands until he’s sitting on the ground instead lying on it. Gretel stands back up, to give him some room.  
  
Hansel shakes his head, then winces and presses a hand to his temple. “Ow. What happened?” But he’s already taking in the scene; the gory remains of the witch scattered around, the gently smouldering ruins where her house used to be. “Holy…” His eyes are wide, face slack with surprise.  
  
Gretel swallows nervously. “I didn’t…” The magic is still roiling inside her, lightning crackling just under her skin. She wants to hide but can tell it would be useless, because Hansel has already seen, the light, blue and golden in turn, flickering over his upturned face. “She hurt you,” she says, helplessly, like it explains anything.  
  
But Hansel doesn’t seem like he’s interested in hearing an explanation, or some kind of justification. His eyes keep flicking between her face and the devastation around them as he slowly rolls up onto his knees. “Gretel…” It comes out shaky, much like his hand, slowly reaching up to touch her bare arm.  
  
Her sleeve is ripped, skin scraped raw and all her hair standing up from the current still running through her. They both hiss at the contact, Gretel’s magic surging forward eagerly, racing down her arm, taking last of the pain and numbness with it, and then leaping over to Hansel’s, wrapping around him in ribbons that quick criss-cross his entire torso. His eyes go wide with shock, back arching sharply, mouth falling open in a wordless moan. For a heart-stopping moment Gretel thinks her magic is _hurting_ him but then the feedback loop hits her and oh, _oh,_ it’s not pain that’s got her brother writhing like a snake at the end of a spear.  
  
“Gretel, _Gretel,_ I’m sorry, oh god…” It’s clearly an effort to speak, the words thick with emotion. Hansel’s hand is still clamped around Gretel’s arm, every doubt and want plain on his face as if Gretel’s magic has robbed him of every defence, and she hates it and loves it in equal measure, gathering him close.  
  
“Shhh,” she hushes him, “It’s fine. I told you.” Her voice is shaking, but her hands are steady when she reaches down to cup her brother’s face. It fits the cradle of her palms like it was made for it and she thinks maybe it was, maybe they were always meant to end up here, coming together like this in a forest that made them anew with fire, bound to each other with blood and magic and love stronger than all of it. Her brother’s mouth is still open, and so Gretel pushes her fingers inside like she wanted to do the last time they stood over a dead body of a witch. There’s no one to interrupt them now, no one to hear the almost sob both of them make at the contact, Hansel’s tongue curling around her fingers, warm and wet.  
  
She feels it in every part of her body, the crackle of her magic replaced by a different kind of burn, one that makes her gasp, the cool, dark scent of the forest rushing to her lungs, running like sap down her veins. Hansel groans wetly, swallowing around her fingers before he pulls off and presses his face against her stomach, arms wrapped around her. She cups the back of his head, careful over the shallow gash, letting her magic knit over split skin, soothe away any lingering pain.  
  
Hansel is shaking, minute tremors wrecking his body, and when Gretel can make out words they are all her name, mouthed against her coat, then her shirt as Hansel rubs his cheek against her middle, nuzzling to get closer. And that… yes, Gretel wants that. She steps away but only enough to be able to shrug out of her jacket, to untangle the grip Hansel has on her waist, and press her brother’s hands against the laces of her vest, the trousers underneath.  
  
He blinks at her first but then understanding dawns and his eyes go dark, hungry and awed and burning, burning, burning right to the heart of her, and she can’t wait any longer. A nudge is all it takes, a mere suggestion of what she wants, and Hansel is falling to the ground, pulling her on top of him.  
  
Gretel settles her weight on his thighs, watches him shudder when she runs a hand down from his throat to his stomach, pushing his leather coat open as she goes. He doesn’t move to help but each buckle that gets tugged free makes him arch off the ground, toward her touch, and his fingers are digging bruises into her legs.  
  
Underneath the layers, he’s all solid muscle and barely held together tension and Gretel wants to keep going, pressing her nails inwards like she could claw out his heart, scratching red trails on his skin, her magic still dancing between them. She rocks forward, slow and deliberate, holds his gaze in hers when they cross over this last line, lets the pleasure of it show on her face, in the helpless stutter of her hips.  
  
He chokes on her name, mouth going soft and pleading, and she pries open his fingers, brings his hands up and presses herself against them.  
  
“I want you to,” she says, and Hansel’s eyes slam shut and he bucks under her, hard enough to make them both moan.  
  
His hands cup her breasts, the pads of his thumbs rough as they brush over her nipples, his eyes – now open again – dark as coal as he watches her reaction. His fingers are clumsy on the fastenings of Gretel’s shirt, slipping to touch every inch of skin as it’s revealed.  
  
The laces of his trousers are tight when Gretel tugs at them, pulled taut by the hardness underneath. She holds Hansel’s eyes when she wraps her hand around his length, eases him out through the half-open fastenings, watches the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he pants though it, body singing with the tension of keeping himself still. Even now, he’s letting Gretel set the pace and the distance, as far as she wants and no further, and she loves him for it, fiercely, her magic humming all around them like a song waiting for a singer.  
  
He’s already leaking, almost as wet as she, and Gretel swipes a finger over the head, brings it to her mouth, the bitter salt of it rising to greet her like the ocean they found at the edge of their world. She rolls to the side just long enough to pull off her trouser, heedless of the fallen leaves that attach themselves to her bare skin. Her knees dig into the forest floor as she raises herself above her brother, a hand between them to guide him in. It’s a slow, satisfying stretch that leaves her gasping, Hansel arching off the ground, the expression on his face a mixture of pleasure and lingering disbelief, awash with the kind of love that raids down covens, fights beyond death and recognises no limits but each other…  
  
They kiss for the first time when he’s inside her; a desperate, almost painful press of open mouths, her brother’s skin under hear hands, between her teeth, completely hers and it’s so good, _so good,_ what she’s wanted for longer than she can remember. Once they start it’s as if they can’t stop, and Hansel pulls her close, arms wrapping around her back as he sits up. The new angle makes them both groan, the sound of it dripping like thick honey between their lips, and Gretel lets the taste of it carry her higher in a rhythm that seems to rise from the very earth underneath their joined bodies.  
  
She comes with her face buried in the crook of her brother’s neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him, nails dragging grooves into his back, pulling out blood that is already hers. Around them the forest shakes, trees bending toward them as easy as stalks of barley under an autumn wind, and when Hansel finally stops holding himself back, trusting her to be right there with him in this as in everything else, the bruises he leaves on her hips bloom across her skin like vines.  
  
After, she wraps her arms and legs around him, hooking her ankles behind his back, kissing away the last of his doubts before they form into words. When the rain picks up again, somehow softer than before, she only tightens her hold, her magic curving over them in a shimmering shield of diffused light, keeping them dry and warm and safe.

 

 

  
  
Spring comes late that year, snow drifts clinging to the ground well into March. But when it finally arrives, it does so with a speed and ferocity that takes everyone by surprise. Seemingly overnight the trees go from brown to pale green, the forest shaking itself awake, everything bursting with life. Gretel tips her head back, breathes in the damp, fertile scent of new beginnings.  
  
They had spent Yule with Ben’s family, a surprisingly non-awkward experience despite the misgivings Hansel and Gretel were harbouring. Even so, they had been careful not to overstay their welcome and had taken odd jobs elsewhere in Augsburg, as well as outside it. The winter may have been long, but it hadn’t been particularly harsh, which was good because the two of them had been able to find some privacy without either freezing off anything important or scandalising their hosts.  
  
Gretel is pretty sure Ben knows. He’s been giving them speculative looks for a while now, since joining their little troupe really, but seems content to maintain plausible deniability and not actually voice his questions or conclusions. All for the better, of course. This may be something she and Hansel have made their peace with but she’s not stupid, knows that people finding out about her magic would be better than anyone discovering just how close the witch hunting siblings really are. And beyond that… it’s private. Something that is only theirs for all they had opened their lives to include Ben and Edward.  
  
The troll arrives with the spring, simply waiting for them one evening, leaning against an old oak tree around the bend of a path, as if he’d known they were coming. And maybe he had. Gretel thinks there’s much more to their large friend than brute strength. She runs up to meet him, throwing her arms around him and letting him lift her up, laughing with delight. Despite their protests, Ben and Hansel get the same treatment, Edward spinning each in turn like they’re his favourite ragdolls.  
  
Hansel straggles exaggeratedly once released, pretending to be dizzier than he is and leaning on Gretel’s shoulder, grumbling about dignity and personal boundaries to hide the smile that threatens to break free. Gretel laughs at him and digs an elbow to his side before picking up her gear.  
  
“Come on,” she says. “Time to stop horsing around and get to work. The witches won’t hunt themselves.”  
  
Hansel snorts at her and Ben rolls his eyes but both gather up their belongings once more, heading down the road, Edward falling into step beside her like he was never gone.

The sun is warm at their back, the breeze gentle, and Gretel looks at her family, knows them to be hers, through blood and choice both.  
  
Somewhere in the trees, a nightingale starts to sing.

 

 

 


End file.
